


For to Each is Given

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24582907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: The only things Angela felt sure of at the moment were that the stranger beside her had suddenly become the second-most important person in her world, and that he knew a lot more than he'd said so far.
Relationships: Angela Dodson & Isabel Dodson, John Constantine/Angela Dodson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 66
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	For to Each is Given

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Damkianna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/gifts).



> The divergence point of a fix-it style AU, in which Angela trusts herself maybe a tiny bit more than in canon, and she and Constantine meet under circumstances *other* than one of the worst days of both their lives.

Angela Dodson hesitated just inside her sister's hospital room, unusually reluctant to take those last few steps toward the bed where Isabel lay sleeping.

This wasn't the first time Isabel had been committed, and it wasn't likely to be the last. Her twin had been sick since they were just little girls, and while the episodes that sent her there were often alarming and always wrenching to experience, they were rarely dangerous to anyone but Isabel herself. Rationally, Angela knew there was nothing to be frightened of. But she couldn't help but feel that there was something different, this time.

Not in the dull beige walls or the soulless fluorescent lighting of the room; nor the cheap industrial furniture, the crucifix overlooking the bed, or the heavy curtains hung over the shatter-resistant windows. The nurses outside in the halls had given her the same worn, distantly sympathetic expressions as always; and no doubt her sister was wearing the same flimsy cotton gown, her hair wild as ever against the blandly colored pillow case. When her mind came unmoored, everything else about Isabel seemed to come unbound, too. But there had been a freneticness to her ranting this time, a sense of fatalistic paranoia like a woman facing a tsunami no one else could see, that caught at the back of Angela's throat and made her feel more uncertain than she had in a long, long time.

But of course that was ridiculous; she was a grown woman, and a trained detective, and there was no threat at Ravenscar that wasn't a part of her sister's lifelong mental illness.

Angela swallowed, then made herself take those last few steps, laying a hand over one of Isabel's where it lay atop the sheets. She was always so pale; she didn't get as much sun as Angela did, always hiding herself away in her apartment, at church, in the depths of the local library, and now here.

"Oh, Izzy," she murmured, stroking a thumb over the back of her sister's wrist. "I'm so sorry."

Impossible to say to her sister's face when she was awake; Isabel had no patience for apologies, particularly since their parents had passed and responsibility for her had fallen on Angela's shoulders. And she'd never had much patience for Angela's apologies, to begin with.

_Why don't you tell them, Angie, that you can see them too?_

A shiver ran through her shoulders. Angela couldn't – couldn't let herself – feed Isabel's delusions. But she was all Isabel had left, really, and of course she loved her. She _was_ sorry, even if Isabel didn't want to hear it. And sometimes – well, she wouldn't be human if she didn't occasionally wonder. 

"There but for the grace go I," she murmured, gently patting her sister's arm as she let go.

It was only the first night of her stay; there was no telling how long Isabel would be there this time. And Angela had to be at the precinct early the next morning. She'd satisfied the sudden urge to make sure her sister was still all right; it was time to go home now, and hope for a night without dreams.

She turned away and took a step toward the door... and behind her, Isabel stirred, murmuring an unintelligible complaint. Angela paused, casting a glance back toward the bed just in time to catch Isabel's eyes fluttering open, dull from sleep and the meds but fixed right on her sister's face.

Their gazes met for one long moment; Angela held her breath, braced for her twin to say something hurtful. To hurl another accusation, or talk about the demons supposedly chasing her this time. But Isabel's mouth pinched in, and something that looked almost like resignation passed over her features as she turned her head sharply away. Then her eyes fluttered shut again, face going slack once more against the pillow.

Her sister's name whispered through Angela's mind; almost as though she was trying to reach her with her thoughts, the way they'd done – pretended to do – as children. Back in the days when they'd mirrored each other in everything, even... well, before she had realized how other people reacted to them. A deep shudder wracked through her in concert with the voice, and Angela found her feet moving again almost before she made the conscious decision to go.

That look on her twin's face – it had struck her to the quick, and she couldn't get away from there fast enough, walking out of the hospital at a pace almost fast enough to be called a jog. All their lives, Isabel had been fighting; fighting so hard she'd broken herself in the process, and cut herself repeatedly to the bone on the shards of her own self-destruction. But one thing she'd never done, in all that time, was _give up_.

She didn't know why it was hitting her so hard that night. Why any of it was hitting her so hard this time around. But she just couldn't stand it; couldn't stand by feeling helpless while her sister's mind ate her alive again. It almost didn't matter whether Isabel really believed in the things she said she saw; what mattered was what seeing them _did_ to her, and Angela couldn't take the suffering anymore.

It was almost enough to make her contemplate doing something – reckless. Nothing she or her parents had ever done had made a difference so far. And neither had the doctors, really, in all that time. Or the priests. But if her sister was so convinced she was seeing demons....

Angela's jaw firmed as she remembered a rumor she'd heard around the precinct the last couple of years. There might be one final avenue to try.

And if that didn't work? Well, she'd cross that bridge when she got there. But they just couldn't go on like this anymore. Her sister deserved better. And that was all there was to it.

* * *

Angela did a little research the next morning, much to the bemusement of the coworkers she asked for references, and was rewarded with an address and a whole lot of other questions to follow up on at some later date. Somehow, it had always felt like she and her sister were alone in this, whatever it was that affected them. That affected Isabel. Of course she knew exorcists _existed_ , and of course they were Catholic; but she was also a rational woman, and she'd always chalked up so-called demons as excuses people used to disclaim responsibility for their own evil actions, or as a method abusers employed to control vulnerable victims who might otherwise reach out for help.

If that was the case, though, the interviews given by those who had interacted with Mr. John Constantine were more than a little disconcerting. Despite the bizarre nature of each of the stories she'd heard, and the disclaimers that came attached to each one – of course no one actually _believed_ he'd seen or done the things attached to his legend – there was a real thread of begrudging respect in each of them. He had a charismatic presence, an acerbic personality, and a very long list of significant contacts, if reports were to be believed. And there were so _many_ incidents on record. More than any other exorcist or occult specialist the department kept track of.

It was enough to make one wonder. And try to keep an open mind for their meeting.

Angela's own record would hardly bear looking at, after all, with someone looking to find fault. She _knew_ what it could look like to someone with a suspicious eye, or someone who couldn't be as sure as she was – in the moment – that her actions were necessary. And she wouldn't blame them for thinking so. She spent enough time in the confession booth as it was, worried that one day her judgment or her instincts would prove faulty. Or that they had already, and that somewhere along the line, she had become as delusional as her sister. Wondering why God had given such skills to her to begin with. It made her curious what the world looked like from the point of view of someone like John Constantine. If he wasn't actually a conman, then....

Her thoughts skittered away from reaching any sort of conclusion as she pulled up outside an older Beaux-Arts style building in downtown LA and got out of her car. It was nearing dusk; a BOWL BOWL BOWL sign lit up in neon colors at street level, and a faint glow issued from several of the windows on the level above. A noisy place to live, she would think; but definitely unique, like everything else she'd heard about him. It made her own modern apartment building seem very subdued by comparison.

She took the stairs up to the second floor, taking in the details of the building as she went. The bowling alley itself seemed clean and brightly lit, but out of the public spaces it was worn and well-lived in. The paint cracked and peeled on the moulding halfway up the walls, the tile patterns were yellowed and faded from decades of foot traffic, and the air was faintly stale with the damp-and-old-dust scent of aging and not particularly well-kept architecture. She'd have expected old solid-core interior doors to match, but her knock sounded far too lightly when she reached the right one; undoubtedly, it had been replaced on a much-reduced budget in recent years.

At first glance, the man who opened the door seemed out of place in such surroundings. Tall, good looking in a lean, pale sort of way, and formally dressed in black suit pants, matching shoes, and a white shirt priced a notch or two above department store wear, he had the look of a professional at the end of a long day. He was clean shaven, dark hair short and neatly trimmed, with an intent, dark gaze. But on second glance, she got the distinct impression of the same decaying grandeur as the building around him: something once-marvelous that hadn't been adequately treasured.

Someone... like Isabel. The comparison flashed into Angela's mind as she greeted him, and once she'd seen it, the feeling of familiarity wouldn't leave her. She wasn't entirely sure why; a faint impression of circles under his eyes, perhaps, or a slight grayish undertone to his complexion. Or maybe the wariness in his eyes as he took in her appearance.

"Mr. Constantine?" she asked, that feeling of uncertainty tugging at her again like an undertow.

"Yeah. Do I know you?" he replied, brow furrowing slightly.

She shook her head, then held up her badge so he could see it, tucked in her hand to avoid flashing it to his neighbors. She wasn't on official business, though she wouldn't lie about who she was. "My name is Angela Dodson. I'd like to consult with you about something, if you have a few minutes."

From the look he gave the badge, and the way his mouth tightened at the sight of it, she'd guess he would prefer to say no. But he stepped back instead, gesturing her into the apartment. "Of course, detective. What business does the Los Angeles Police Department have for me?"

"Nothing... that official," she admitted as she stepped inside, letting him close the door behind her.

The apartment itself was all open space; as worn as the hallway outside, but full of air and light. A long open space ran from the hallway clear through to the other side of the building, areas that in any other apartment would all be separate rooms bleeding one into another, from dining room and kitchen and office space all the way back to a bed she could faintly glimpse near the back. Where partial walls did exist, on the inner wall of the apartment away from the shuttered windows, they were made of green glass. Not transparent, but translucent, casting a verdant overlay on whatever was behind them.

The dozens and dozens of water jugs beneath the long bank of windows, each marked with a cross, were an odd and discordant note. Angela's eyes lingered on them for a moment, wondering; then she turned back to her host, who had taken a seat at the table and was gesturing at one opposite him.

"It rarely is," he said dryly. "Care for a drink?"

She glanced at the green bottle already on the table, placed near a glass tumbler with a residue of amber liquid in the bottom, and shook her head as she took a seat. Alcohol might blunt the raw edges temporarily, but in the end it always made the nightmares worse. "No thank you. It's... about my sister. She's a patient at Ravenscar."

Something flickered in Constantine's eyes as she said that; he reached for the glass with some deliberation, pouring himself another finger of liquid. "Sorry to hear that."

"Thanks. It's not the first time she's been committed there. But...." She hesitated, not sure quite what to say next that wouldn't sound... well, crazy.

"But this time there's something different," he prompted, narrowing his eyes at her.

It almost felt like he already knew; that he could see right through her. But she supposed there were only so many reasons she might have come to his door, in particular. No doubt he'd already heard it all, if he'd really been operating for so many years. 

"She's always claimed to see... impossible things. And whether they're real or not, they're certainly real to _her_. But this time, she's become deeply paranoid. She says they're watching her, Mr. Constantine – demons and angels, both. I'm worried that there might be an element of realism to her claims; that there really is someone stalking her."

Constantine pursed his mouth and took a long sip of his drink. "Sounds like a theory, detective."

Angela winced at the discouragement in his tone and continued. "But as I said – whatever the truth behind her fears may be, she believes every word she says. And I was hoping that, perhaps...."

She trailed off again, hoping that he'd once again fill in the blanks, but this time his reaction wasn't nearly so helpful.

"What, that I'd come do an exorcism for show?" he replied, brow furrowing ominously. There was an almost offended note to his voice. "I'm not that sort of magician."

She drew a frustrated breath, then leaned forward, bracing her elbows against the table. She hadn't meant to offend him; but he wasn't exactly _wrong_. If that was what it took to ease her sister's mind, she'd find _someone_ to do it. But if the things Isabel was seeing really were....

Her thoughts shied away from the subject again, and she shook her head firmly. "I didn't expect you to be. I don't... I don't know what I _was_ expecting. I suppose I thought perhaps, maybe if you could meet her. Take a look. I just hoped...."

Constantine's frown deepened, but he took another moment to study her, checking her out from head to toe as if searching for something. Then his eyes widened suddenly, and he sat back in his chair, tossing back another swallow of his drink. "Hope's almost as bad as expectation, you know. This world's a shithole, detective; I think you know that as well as I do. Life isn't fair, and if even it was – if people actually deserved the things that happened to them – it would be even _worse_. Odds are, nothing I can do will make a damn bit of difference to your sister.

"But, sure. Yeah. If you can pay me, I'll take a look."

Angela swallowed, and wondered what he'd seen when he looked at her. Wondered, too, with a quiver of thought that brought to mind the scent of the incense at St. Vincent's, if she really wanted to know.

"Of course," she replied instead. "When can you come?"

He eyed the glass again, then her, then gave her a rueful smile that lightened his expression for the first time since she'd met him. For a brief moment, she was struck vividly by his presence as a physical being, apart from the competency she'd sought him out for: tall, attractive, well dressed, and masculine in a way that lit up her entire limbic system. "Depends on if you're driving."

 _Down, girl; this is for Isabel_ , she told her unruly hormones. "Well you certainly aren't," she said, softening the words with a faint, answering smile. "Thank you, Mr. Constantine."

"Don't thank me yet," he replied, then collected the suit jacket off the back of his chair and stood. "And if you're taking me to meet your sister, you should probably call me John."

"Okay, then. John," she said, shaking her head. "Call me Angela. I'm parked down on the street."

"Lead on, Angela," he replied, and gestured toward the door.

* * *

The drive was a quiet one; she had too many questions in her mind to pick just one to start with, and John was occupied with a cigarette, waving it at her to ask permission before rolling down the window and trailing a cloud of smoke in their wake. Cool air flooded into the car, raising chill bumps on her arms; it didn't entirely wash away the harsh scent of burning nicotine, but she didn't want him any more irritable than he was already. And there was something comforting and nostalgic about it anyway, not that she would ever admit it aloud; something that brought back afternoons with her mother's parents, out on the veranda of their house in Louisiana when she and Isabel were little. 

Before the drugs. Before the treatments. Before they'd become 'poor Isabel' and 'but Angela', instead of Angela-and-Isabel. Maybe they'd never have that back again. But maybe... maybe they'd have _something_ a little closer again, if he really could help.

He stubbed out the cigarette when they arrived at Ravenscar, and followed her quietly up to Isabel's room. Some of the nurses nodded at him, as familiarly as they did her; he wasn't a stranger there either, apparently. But he let her lead until they reached their destination.

John drew to a halt in front of Isabel's room, holding out an arm to block her from reaching for the handle. "This is your sister's room?" he asked, frowning at the door.

The signage outside clearly indicated _Isabel Dodson_ , but he was just as clearly paying attention to something not so obviously visible. "Yes. Why?"

"There's something...." he said, approaching slowly until he rested his fingertips gently against the door's frame. "I'm not sure yet, but... she might actually be right."

"About the angels and demons?" Angela blurted uneasily.

"About being watched," he replied, throwing a glance back over his shoulder.

She had that sense of being seen through again, and hastily shut it away in favor of the more obvious alarm generated by his words. "You can tell that from the _door_?"

"Mmm. Is she always in this room?"

"I... I don't know. I'd have to check, but...." Angela frowned, trying to think back. 

When she'd come to see Isabel the night before, she hadn't had to ask the nurses where to go. But then again, that wasn't exactly unusual for her and Isabel regardless. Which she was realizing now was probably unusual enough in itself, but not really relevant to the question. "I think so?"

"Not new, then. But recently ramped up?" John replied, tone a little more absent as he traced his hand further around the frame. Then he set his fingers to the handle and gently opened the door.

Inside, Isabel was awake, seated at the window. She was tracing something on the glass with a fingertip, the pose so reminiscent of their childhood that it caught at Angela's breath. It took a moment for her to turn her head; she still didn't quite seem to be tracking, for whatever reason, but she stilled as she caught sight of her visitors. 

No, not visitors plural, Angela realized as John stepped forward again; as she caught sight of _him_.

"You're twins. Huh," he realized aloud, pausing to take off his jacket. Maybe to present a less threatening appearance? "Do you have nicknames for each other? Ones nobody else uses?" 

"She calls me – used to call me Angie. And I called her Izzy," she replied, watching her sister watch him back. Isabel studied him for a long moment, expression fascinated, before turning to the window again briefly to lick her fingertip and add one final looping curve to her invisible message. Then she slid off the windowsill and padded haltingly toward them.

John finished stripping off the jacket and tossed it absently toward the hospital bed; then he rolled back the cuffs of his white shirt, exposing dark lines tattooed on his forearms. "Izzy," he said more loudly, as she drew closer. "Angie here tells me you've had some unwanted visitors."

Isabel didn't quite move to meet him; she drifted closer to the bed instead, stretching her fingertips out to hover just over the discarded jacket. "I've seen things before," she replied, shaking her head with the words. "I've always seen them. But no one listened. No one ever listens."

"Maybe they just don't know how," John replied, tone gentler than she'd have expected. But then, nothing about this entire encounter was going as Angela had expected. "But this time, Angie brought someone who does. My name is John Constantine."

Isabel _definitely_ reacted to that; her hand dropped the last few inches, fingers clutching against dark fabric, and she turned wide eyes in his direction. "But what can _you_ do?" she said, that same resigned cast to her voice that Angela had seen in her body language the night before. "They haven't done anything yet. They just watch. They're _always_ watching, and whispering my name. But no one else ever hears them. No one else ever sees them."

"I know," he continued, calmly. "I know how that feels. It's enough to drive _anyone_ crazy, isn't it?"

Angela would have said something sharp at that; she didn't respond well to anyone mocking her sister. But that rueful smile stopped her, curling at the corner of his mouth again – and the way Isabel turned even more fully toward him, eyes wide and unoffended. He was laughing _with_ Isabel, not at her.

A brief stab of jealousy struck her next, but she held that back, too. Enough about this situation was unfair to Isabel already; she wouldn't add any more to it.

"Then _you_ can tell them," Isabel replied, sudden hope lighting up her expression.

"Sorry, no can do," John continued in that same gentle tone, shaking his head. "No one ever wants to believe this sort of thing. Don't be too hard on your sister. If _she'd_ said something, then she'd be in here, too, and I wouldn't be able to do _this_."

He raised his forearms then and brought them together with a sudden, startling shout. The tattoos matched up to form a joined pattern as he turned toward the window, as if he too saw something there that Angela couldn't. "Into the light, I command thee!"

Beyond him, off to one side, just where someone might have been best positioned to whisper in the ear of a woman seated on the sill, a shimmer formed in the shape of a person, indistinct but clearly present. For the first time since their childhood, something was actually _there_.

Angela gasped, then glanced instinctively toward the camera in the corner of the room. If this was real, if it was really... but the little red light had shut off at some point after they'd entered. Sudden doubt warred with the awe and horror rising in her heart; had he, could Constantine have called ahead – was this some kind of cruel trick?

Deep within, in the part of her soul that had caught her like a hook yesterday and dragged her here in the first place, Angela _knew_ he hadn't. No matter how much easier things would be if he had. This _couldn't_ logically be real. It couldn't. But it _was_.

She glanced back toward the shimmer just in time to see John repeat his trick, sending some kind of magical shockwave she could almost feel from the tattoo toward the shrouded figure. "Into the light I command thee!" he said again, in ringing, commanding tones.

The shimmer solidified – and presented Angela with a brand new, even more dizzying problem: it was actually someone Angela recognized, a face she'd seen speaking to Father David last week at St. Vincent's. He – or maybe she; the short, wavy hairstyle and cut of the suit they were wearing didn't give any solid hints one way or the other – was wearing a blandly amused, condescending expression, shaking their head at the exorcist.

"John, John. No need to shout," they said, as if exactly nothing was unusual about their appearance. "You're a bit early, I'm afraid."

Angela swallowed heavily, glancing toward Isabel. How was this happening? _What_ was happening? A spark of defiance had reentered Isabel's eyes – but she didn't seem at all surprised to see them. She really had been seeing something real, hadn't she? All this time, while the whole world – including Angela – had told her she was mad.

"Not here for you. At least I wasn't," John replied, equally mildly. "What are you doing here, Gabriel?"

.... _Gabriel_?!

"Well, I could offer something about how a shepherd leads even the most wayward of his flock, but it might sound disingenuous," they replied, still smiling at him like something disgusting but fascinating one might find under their shoe.

"No, see, that's why you keep your all-seeing eye on _me_ ," John parried. "But you weren't here for me, any more than I was here for you. What's your interest in Isabel Dodson?"

Gabriel's smile widened just a little, and their eyes seemed to glitter as they moved, stalking away from the window now that they had been revealed. "Oh, I am simply seeking to inspire mankind to all that was intended. As always."

Isabel caught her breath at that, a startled, alarmed inhalation, and Angela finally unfroze at the sound, darting behind John to grab her and put the bed between them and the intruder. John never looked back, but Angela saw Gabriel's eyes flick toward her and then away, the lines around their eyes crinkling more deeply as they caught sight of the sisters' new position.

"Well, maybe you ought to give this one a little more space," John replied, more harshly. "Because I really don't think _inspiration_ is really what you're evoking, here."

"Mmmm. I suppose we'll see, won't we?" Gabriel said lightly, continuing their stalk forward, passing within an arm's length of him on their way toward the door. They flicked another glance toward Isabel and Angela as they passed, then back toward the exorcist, gaze fairly dancing with delight. "Do keep well, John. Well, at least as well as you _can_. Do try to look up from your navel now and again, won't you?"

The door closed behind them with a soft click just as if they were anyone else; as if they'd never appeared out of nothing to upend Angela's entire world. She let kept hold of Isabel's arm, not daring to look her sister in the eye just then, and turned to John. "You said _Gabriel_. Please tell me that... that wasn't...."

"I'd apologize, but then I'd be just as disingenuous as that asshole, so." He shrugged, unapologetically. "And I'd rather not say much more until I've warded the room. That is... if that's all right...?"

Her sister stepped forward, not looking at Angela, but not shaking her off either. "That wasn't the only one. _Please_."

John nodded solemnly, as though given a grave responsibility, and took a penknife out of the pocket of his trousers. "Just a moment. Then we'll see."

He went directly to the window, starting at the corner of the sill and beginning to carve a row of what looked like some kind of runes. Angela knew that she'd have more questions later; but in the moment, her sister mattered rather more. "Izzy," she whispered, looking down at the floor. "I didn't know." 

"You did," Isabel replied, shaking her head sharply in the corner of Angela's vision. "You _did_. Or you'd never have brought _him_."

Angela swallowed, everything she'd been trying so hard not to think about these last couple of days flashing before her mind's eye again. "I didn't _want_ to know," she admitted, roughly.

Isabel gave a surprised little laugh, finally turning to look at her. "Truth at last," she said, scornfully. "After all these years. I don't know if that makes you stronger than me, or the other way around."

"Why not both?" John said from the window, glancing briefly in their direction. "We all have our coping methods. What matters isn't whether it's productive by normal standards; it's whether it does what you need it to do. Besides. Like I said. If she was locked up with you, then I wouldn't be here."

A practical way to look at it, though it didn't much ease Angela's newly sharpened sense of guilt. But it did send shivers down her spine, to imagine what might have happened if she _hadn't_ brought him here. What could an archangel possibly want with her sister? It didn't make any sense.

John had finished with the sill and one side of the frame, and moved up to carve the stretch at the top of the glass, working at a steady rate. He only paused once, when he pulled even with the pane Isabel had touched; he took a moment to breathe warmly on the glass and bent to see what she had written. Whatever it was, it wasn't one of the light-hearted secret messages Isabel and Angela had exchanged when they were girls; his face went grim at the sight of it, and he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket to snap a quick picture before turning back to his carving.

He finished swiftly, then moved to the door to do the same, glancing out through the little window before setting to work. Angela thought she remembered seeing carving on the wooden jamb at his apartment – but the doorframe was all metal here, so he made his scratches small and tight on the plaster around the metal, instead.

Isabel just watched, saying nothing more while he worked, but the moment he finished the last rune she stiffened and caught her breath on a sudden sob. Angela wrapped both arms around her, feeling somehow, strangely _lighter_ though still not really understanding why, and watched with wide eyes as John folded the knife away and moved back toward the bed.

"That should hold them for now," he said gruffly, not quite looking at either of them as he shrugged his jacket back on. "You understand, though...."

Isabel took a shaky breath, then finally stepped away from Angela, looking up with wet eyes. "I have to stay here for them to work. I know. I would anyway, until they decide I'm not a danger to myself anymore. But if I can sleep... if I can just sleep, without the eyes and the whispers...."

"I'll do some research. Be careful, all right? I know you can't look away. But don't let anyone tempt you into crossing one of those out. And if they take you out, or try to transfer you to another room, ask one of the nurses to get a message to Les. She knows me; she'll pass it on, and we'll come back for you."

Isabel nodded, wiping at her cheeks, then stepped back, calmer and saner than she'd seemed in weeks. "You'd better go; they'll be by to check on me soon."

"Izzy...." Angela said quietly, hardly knowing what to add. There weren't really words for the situation they'd found themselves in. "Duck misses you."

Isabel gave a tearful laugh and turned her head away. "Not as much as I miss Duck."

She couldn't say anything else; it would have to do, for now. Angela bit her lip, then turned speaking eyes on Constantine and followed him as he quietly led the way back out the door.

She held her breath until they were in the hall, walking away, then started firing questions as quietly as she could without being overheard. "What's happening, here? Was that really – an _angel_? Why was it tormenting my sister? And what was that on the window?"

Decades worth of denial were shattering somewhere inside her; the only things in the world Angela felt sure of at the moment were that the stranger beside her had suddenly become the second-most important person in her world, and that he knew a lot more than he'd shared so far.

John gave her a shrewd look as they walked back down the hall and proved her right about both things. "You stopped seeing once," he said, grimly. "You really want to open yourself back up to that again?"

Angela licked lips gone dry with the day's stress, and gave a jerky nod. "I abandoned Izzy when we were girls; I left her all alone. Maybe that _is_ why I'm here now to help her. But wishes and excuses are just magical thinking; another way of avoiding responsibility." Her voice cracked as she continued. "I can't turn my back on her again, not after what just happened in there."

"You do this, that won't even be a possibility anymore," he cautioned her. "Once you can see them again – they'll be able to see you. On _both_ sides of the equation."

Demons. A shudder of denial tried to work through her again – and she stopped in the hall, mouth drawn into a grim line. "From the look on Gabriel's face, I think that ship has sailed already. The more important question is, will seeing again help my sister?"

John's expression softened as he gazed down at her, dropping a light touch to her arm. "She's your twin, Angela. When you were little – I bet you finished each other's sentences, didn't you? One of you was hurt, the other would cry. One of you looked for threats from without," he glanced back up the hall toward Room 427, "and the other kept watch for threats from within." He met Angela's gaze again.

She nodded, numbly.

"If it comes to a confrontation – yeah, it'll help her. And knowing my luck?" He shrugged. "There's always a catch, so it probably will."

Angela took a deep breath. "Then let's do this," she said.

"Back to my apartment, then," John said with a crooked smile. "The crash course it is."

* * *

Angela didn't think she was imagining that the trip back to John's apartment was warmer than the trip out, and not just because the car's windows remained up this time. The exorcist was no less tense – but it was an engaged sort of tension, not the pensive, anticipatory one from before.

The first thing he did after they pulled out of the parking lot was to examine the photo he'd taken of Isabel's window scrawl again on his cell phone's tiny screen. Then he shook his head and gestured with it, thumb hovering over the buttons. "Mind if I....?"

She waved a hand in his direction. "Go ahead; I want answers at least as badly as you do."

He made a scoffing noise, the near corner of his mouth tugging upward. "No last minute return to denial, then? Last chance to change your mind."

Angela raised her eyebrows at him. "Would you?" she replied, tartly.

"Never really had the chance. But I take your point." He shrugged, then dialed swiftly from memory and raised the phone to his ear. "Beeman? Hey, it's John. No, no, it's not about my order; just had a question I thought you might be in a better position to answer...."

She listened in shamelessly as he spoke his contact, describing a reference in Corinthians that she knew quite well was in no version of the Bible she'd ever read, and the circular symbol that Isabel had drawn after it. Whether that meant there were prophets in Hell, or that another authority entirely may have taken up pen, and somehow seen such volumes printed, such that one might have made its way back up to the mortal plane for reading... Angela's mind boggled at the thought. How could there be so much more to the world than everyone believed?

Well; _almost_ everyone. She glanced at John again as his frown deepened, wondering at the circumstances that had brought them across one another's path.

"The sins of the father would only be exceeded by the sins of the son? But he can't cross over, B."

"Whose son?" Angela couldn't help but interject, though she feared she knew very well what the answer must be.

"Yeah, that's the symbol all right," John continued, throwing her a knowing look. "The sign of Mammon. That doesn't make any sense, though; there's been a slight uptick in soul traffic lately, but nothing on the scale like we'd see if the son of the devil was trying to make a move. Besides, you know, the fact that it's _impossible_.... Huh. Always a catch."

He paused a moment more, listening intently, then drew a sharp breath. "A powerful psychic. And divine assistance. Well, that _does_ explain what I just saw at Ravenscar.... yeah, where I found the symbol. Maybe you're right; maybe we _did_ catch it early for once.... Watch yourself, Beeman. I'll fill you in later."

He finished the call, then stared at the phone in his hand for a moment with a slightly perturbed expression. "Angela?" he said, thoughtfully.

"Yes, John?" 

"Why _did_ you pick today to come and find me?"

Something about that question felt more momentous than it seemed on the surface. Angela swallowed back her first, flippant answer, and thought about it a little more. About the sudden urge to see her sister. About the instinct that had sent her fleeing Isabel's room, determined to do something, anything, even pursue a line of assistance that she'd actively avoided for so many years prior.

"I just... knew," she said, keeping her eyes on the road ahead rather than her passenger as she parsed through the uncomfortable thoughts. "That it needed to be done."

_Like she always knew where they were. Always knew exactly where to find them. Where to aim and where to duck... she'd always known that it wasn't luck._

Chill bumps rose on her arms as she remembered the last time she'd been to confession; the day she'd seen Gabriel speaking to Father David. The archangel who was tormenting her sister, apparently on behalf of Satan's son, speaking to the priest who'd been telling her ever since the first time she'd drawn her gun on the job that God had a plan; that she shouldn't feel any guilt for what she'd done.

 _I've always known that I could see_ , she realized, viscerally disturbed at the thought.

She'd have to put in for a leave of absence immediately, citing her sister as the reason, and then begin the search for a new job. Not that she had any idea what she'd _do_. But....

"Huh," John said, interrupting her spiraling train of thought. "Maybe we don't need the crash course after all, then. Take a left up here – we'll try Midnite's first."

"What's, uh, Midnite's?" she asked, dragging her thoughts back to the present as she made the indicated turn. "Another friend of yours?"

"He's more of a neutral party these days. Officially, his place is known as a 'haven for those that rise and fall'. If you can get in... well, it'll be a lot safer than crashing you through to the other plane if Mammon and Gabriel are watching, that's for damn sure," he snorted. "And the crowd there might tell us a little more. I'm not used to being ahead of the curve; could be interesting."

She wasn't sure she liked the sound of that _if_ ; but she liked the sound of attracting the attention of the beings stalking her sister even less. "And if I can get in. What do we do after that?"

He rattled off a series of further directions, then reached over to lay a hand on her arm again. It felt more comforting than it had any right to.

"Then I do what _I_ do. Rattle some cages, find out more. You keep a watch on your sister, work on getting her out as soon as you can, so we can put her behind better defenses. And when they come, we'll stop them."

"You sound a lot surer about that than I feel," she admitted. "If these feelings I've been having actually _mean_ something, then...."

"Hey," he cut her off. "One step at a time."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes."

She finally pulled into an open parking space, shutting off the car and clinging to the wheel for a long moment. So much change, so fast; it frightened her. And yet, a certainty welling up beneath the fear told her that she was finally afraid of the right things – and that shook her at least as much as all the rest.

"I've sort of thrust all this on you. I don't know...." she started to say, glancing over at her passenger.

"I'm John Constantine," he cut her off, smiling wryly. "Like I said, this is what I do. I'm not going to cut you loose now that things are getting interesting."

"Interesting, huh?" she replied, smiling back at him. "I'm not sure how to take that."

"Take it however you want," he teased back, then leaned over the seat, waiting just long enough for her to meet him half-way. It was barely anything; just a brief brush of lips. And yet, for all that it was as unexpected as all the rest of the day's events.... it felt just as certain, too.

One step at a time, as the man had said, Angela told herself, feeling much more centered as they broke the kiss.

"Now c'mon," he said, pulling back and climbing out of the car. "Chaz is going to kill me when he finds out – but if you can get in, then you can get in, and that's that."

That comment made little sense; about as much as the man standing at the steps descending into the building, holding what looked like an oversized playing card or somesuch patternside-out in front of him.

"Just say the first thing that comes to mind," John murmured from behind her, a reassuring hand at the small of her back.

Angela blinked, then bit her lip. "Two ducks in a cloud...?" she said, feeling ridiculous.

The bouncer's eyebrows raised, and he looked over her shoulder at John... but then he removed the rope that had barred her from entering the club.

"Thought so," John said, smugly.

And at his side, Angela took her first certain steps into this new world.

_For Isabel._


End file.
